The Man with the Lead Stomach (3 page)

Eyes blazing, the elderly nobleman turned and left. Nicolas had never seen Monsieur de Sartine look so pale. Purplish rings had appeared under his eyes and he was furiously twisting one of the curls of his wig.

After taking a candle from the candelabrum Picard was
carrying
, the young man stepped cautiously into the room, followed by his superior. He would remember his first impressions for a very long time.

At first he could see nothing but immediately felt the chill in the bedroom, then detected the smell of brackish water mingled with the more irritant odour of gunpowder. The flickering flame shed a dim light on an enormous room decorated from floor to ceiling with pale wood panelling. As he moved forward he saw on his left a large, garnet-red marble fireplace topped by a pier glass. To the right an alcove hung with dark damask stood out from the gloom. A Persian carpet and two armchairs hid from view what seemed to be a desk, placed in the corner opposite the doorway. Here and there were chests covered with weapons. These and the disorderly state of the room showed that its occupant was a young man and a soldier.

It was when he neared the desk that Nicolas noticed a figure stretched out on the ground. A man lay face up, his feet pointing towards the window. His head seemed shrunken, as if out of proportion to his body. A large cavalry pistol lay beside him. Monsieur de Sartine moved closer and then recoiled. It was truly a sight to shock the most hardened individual.

Nicolas, who had not flinched when he leant over the body,
suddenly realised that his superior had had few opportunities to witness death in its more gruesome forms. He took him firmly by the arm and forced him to sit down on one of the armchairs. Monsieur de Sartine let himself be led like a child and did not utter a word; he took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow and temples whilst airing his wig, then slumped down, his chin
drooping
on to his chest. Nicolas was amused to note that Monsieur de Sartine’s pale face had now turned a greenish colour. Having scored a point over his superior – he allowed himself such little victories – he resumed his examination of the scene.

What had horrified the Lieutenant General of Police was the dead man’s face. The military wig had slipped down on to his forehead in the most grotesque fashion. It further emphasised the already glazed look in the eyes that seemed to be staring at death itself. But where a gaping mouth should have completed the expression of horror or pain, all that could be seen were sunken cheeks and a chin that almost touched the nose in a twisted grin. The face had been so disfigured that it immediately brought to mind an old man who had lost all his teeth or the contorted features of some sculpted monster. The wound that was the cause of death had not bled, but it was too soon to draw any conclusions from this. The bullet seemed to have struck the base of the neck at point-blank range and to have singed the fabric of the shirt and the muslin of the cravat.

Nicolas knelt down beside the body to look at the wound. It was black, and the tear in the skin, the width of the bullet, seemed already to have been closed over by the epidermis; a little congealed blood was visible but it had mainly spread out into the flesh. The young commissioner noted down his observations in a
small notebook. He described the way the body was lying and added that the victim was wearing civilian clothes. He was struck by the state of the hands and the fact that they were clenched. The fancy boots were muddy and all the lower part of the body was soaked with foul-smelling water as if the young man had crossed through a pond or an ornamental fountain before returning home to put an end to his life.

Nicolas walked over to the window and studied it carefully. The inner shutters of light oak were bolted. He undid them and noted that the window was also shut. He put everything back in place, picked up the candle and lit the hurricane lamp on the desk. The room suddenly emerged from the half-light. A voice behind him made him turn.

‘May I be of assistance, sir?’

The door was still open and on the threshold stood a young man, wearing livery but wigless. Monsieur de Sartine had not detected his presence since the back of the armchair hid the stranger almost completely. His uniform was neat and buttoned up but Nicolas was surprised to see he was in stockinged feet.

‘May I ask what you are doing here? I am Nicolas Le Floch, a commissioner of police from the Châtelet.’

‘My name is Lambert and I am the manservant and factotum of Monsieur the Vicomte de Ruissec.’

Nicolas was shocked by his slightly provocative tone of voice. He did not admit to himself that he hated tow-coloured hair and eyes of differing colours: on his first day in Paris his watch had been stolen from him by a brigand with just such eyes.
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‘And what are you doing here?’

‘I was asleep in the servants’ quarters when I heard Madame
the comtesse’s cries and so I quickly dressed and hurried here. Please forgive me,’ he said, nodding towards his feet. ‘In my haste … my eagerness to be of assistance …’

‘Why did you come here first?’

‘I met old Picard in the entrance hall. He explained what had happened and his fears for my master.’

Nicolas rapidly made a note of everything he was told, registering the possible contradictions and the contrasting impressions that the valet’s words had on him. The fellow’s tone of voice held more than a hint of mocking sarcasm, something unusual for a person of his station when addressing his betters. The man was not as straightforward as he at first appeared. He claimed to have dressed in a hurry, whereas his uniform was immaculate down to his knotted cotton cravat, and yet he had failed to put on his shoes. Nicolas would need to check which way he had come and compare his statements with Picard’s. Was it necessary to go outside and then through the courtyard to get to the vicomte’s rooms or was there a secret passage via the staircases and corridors connecting all the buildings in the Ruissec mansion? Lastly, the man seemed quite unmoved, though admittedly he might not have seen the corpse as it was hidden by the armchairs and by Nicolas himself. As for Monsieur de Sartine, he remained impassive and silent, and was contemplating the back-plate of the fireplace. Nicolas decided to get straight to the point.

‘Do you know that your master is dead?’

He had moved closer to the manservant, who screwed up his pockmarked face into an expression that could have been interpreted either as a fatalistic acceptance of the fact or as a sudden feeling of sorrow.

‘My poor monsieur. So he finally kept his word!’

As Nicolas remained silent, he went on: ‘Over the past few days he had become sick of life. He had stopped eating and was avoiding his friends. A disappointment in love or at cards, or both, if you ask me. All the same, who would have believed he would have done it so soon?’

‘He kept his word, you said.’

‘His promise, to be more precise. He kept saying that he would create a stir, one way or another. He had even mentioned the scaffold …’

‘When did he make such a strange remark?’

‘About three weeks ago at a rout with his friends in a tavern in Versailles. I was there to serve them and supply them with drink. It was quite a party!’

‘Can you name these friends?’

‘Not all of them. I only really know one of them: Truche de La Chaux, a Life Guard at the palace. He was a close friend, even though he is only gentry.’

Nicolas noted that failing common in footmen of adopting their masters’ prejudices. In this way contempt for others was to be found at all levels of society, permeating the nobility and their servants alike.

‘When did you see your master for the last time?’

‘Only this evening.’

At his reply, the Lieutenant General of Police jumped out of his armchair; Lambert recoiled in surprise at this pale apparition, leaping up like a jack-in-the-box, with a ruffled, precariously perched wig on his head.

‘Well, Monsieur, please tell me about this evening in detail.’

Lambert did not ask who he was dealing with and recounted his story.

‘My master was on guard last night. The Queen and many of her entourage were at cards. After coming off duty he rested until midday. He then went for a walk around the park on his own, instructing me to be in the forecourt at four o’clock with a carriage. He wanted to spend the night in Paris, so he said. We arrived this evening at about nine o’clock, without incident. He then told me to leave as he no longer needed me. I was tired, so I went to bed.’

‘You were due back on duty tomorrow morning, were you?’

‘Yes, indeed. At seven o’clock I would have brought hot water up to his lordship.’

‘Was the weather fine in Versailles?’ Nicolas interrupted, to the evident annoyance of Monsieur de Sartine, who did not see the point of this digression.

‘Misty and gloomy.’

‘Was it raining?’ He stared at the manservant.

‘Not at all, sir. But perhaps this question relates to the state of my poor master’s clothes. I suggested he change before leaving Versailles. Lost in melancholy thoughts, he had slipped during his walk and fallen into a small drainage canal. That was the explanation he gave me when I expressed my concern at the state of his clothes.’

Nicolas was trying hard not to give in to his instinctive mistrust of the manservant. He kept repeating to himself that to judge somebody on first impressions always carried the risk of serious error. He recalled Inspector Bourdeau’s words. In his youth the inspector had usually trusted his initial judgements. He
had attempted to correct this tendency, but as he had grown older experience had taught him the value of his first reaction – when instinct alone had its say – and he had returned to the habits of his youth as a surer means of discovering the truth about a person.

Annoyed by this introspection the young man decided to wait until later to marshal his thoughts. At present it would not be justified to hound the manservant when the case seemed a
clear-cut
one of suicide. He merely needed to clarify the circumstances in order to understand what had led the unfortunate young man to commit the fateful act. So with Monsieur de Sartine’s
agreement
Nicolas dismissed Lambert, advising him to remain in the corridor; he wanted first of all to question the major-domo.

At this point some police officers appeared. He asked them to wait until the initial investigations were complete and instructed them to keep an eye on Lambert and not allow him to speak to anyone.

When he went back into the room, Sartine was again slumped in the armchair, apparently grappling with his thoughts. Nicolas did not disturb him, but returned instead to the body.

Candlestick in hand, he examined the scene, starting with the wooden floor. He spotted a few recent scratch marks, which could have been caused either by gravel sticking to the sole of the boots or by something quite different.

His attention was then drawn to the desktop. Under the hurricane lamp in the middle of the desktop leather he found a sheet of paper and, scribbled in large capitals, the words: ‘FORGIVE ME, FAREWELL’. To the left of this sheet lay a
quill next to an inkstand. The position of the armchair behind the desk indicated that the person who had written this message had then stood up, pushed the chair back and made off to the right towards the door, presumably to go round the front of the desk and to end up where the body now rested.

He looked at the corpse once more, paying special attention to the hands, and tried unsuccessfully to close the eyes. He then had a thorough look around the room and noticed to the left of the entrance a huge, elaborately carved wardrobe that almost reached the ceiling. Its doors were ajar. He pushed one open and looked inside; it was dark and cavernous, reminiscent of the box beds of his childhood in Brittany. A strong smell of leather and earth filled his nostrils. In the bottom part was a collection of boots, some in need of a good brushing. He pushed back the polished door of the wardrobe, then drew a plan of the apartment on a page of his notebook.

Continuing his inspection, Nicolas spotted a break in the moulding of the wainscoting. To the left of the alcove a door opened on to a dressing room with deal half-panelling and an adjacent water closet. The room was tiled in Lias
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and black marble. The walls were hung with wallpaper depicting exotic birds. It was lit by a bull’s-eye, which he checked was closed. He stood in thought for some time before the dressing table and its fine porcelain bowl, admiring the toilet case with its razors and mother-of-pearl and silver-gilt instruments carefully laid out on a white linen towel. He also subjected the brushes and combs to the same scrutiny, as if mesmerised by the sight of such splendours.

When Nicolas returned to his superior, Monsieur de Sartine was pacing to and fro in the bedroom, carefully avoiding the
corpse. His wig was straight again and the colour had returned to his bony cheeks.

‘My dear Nicolas,’ said Sartine, ‘I am in the most terrible predicament. Like me, you are convinced that the young man took his own life, is that correct?’

Nicolas was careful not to answer and, taking his silence to be tantamount to assent, the Lieutenant General carried on, though not before checking in the pier glass that his wig was properly back in place.

‘You know the procedure in such cases. The assumption is one of suicide, and the commissioner who has been informed goes to the scene without his gown and draws up a report without the least fuss or publicity. Then at the request of the grieving relatives, but equally to preserve the conventions, the magistrate requires the parish priest or requests him via his bishop to conduct the funeral service for the deceased and to bury him quietly. As you are also aware …’

‘Until recently the bodies of those who committed suicide, since they were deemed to be their own murderers, were tried and sentenced to be dragged along on a large timber frame attached to a cart. I know that, sir.’

‘Very good, very good. However, notwithstanding this appalling public ordeal on the hurdle, the body was hanged and denied burial in consecrated ground. Fortunately a more enlightened philosophy and our more compassionate times now spare the victim and the family such distressing and shocking excesses. However, we have just such a tragedy here. The elder son of a noble family with a promising future ahead of him has just died. His father is close to the King, or rather to the entourage
of the Dauphin. Foolishly – because one should not speak of death to royalty – Madame Adélaïde was informed of the vicomte’s suicide and quickly gave in to the Comte de Ruissec’s entreaties. Without weighing her words she gave me some recommendations, which I pretended to take as orders, though in fact she is not entitled to give me any. However, it is difficult to deny her wishes and I need to deal carefully with a family that has her support. Nevertheless …’